Hunting
by eightyeightkate
Summary: Sam's very first hunt was with Dean. Totally gen.


Dad was on a hunting trip, and he hadn't been home in a few days. Dean wasn't worried, though: John wasn't due back for another half week at least, and besides, they had a job to do.

Sam was eight, which was plenty old enough to start hunting, Dean figured. Hell, he took out his first ghost when he was seven. And it just so happened that there was a haunted house just down the street from their motel. He wondered if Dad did it on purpose.

"Sammy," Dean said, his voice authoritative. "We are going hunting."

Sam looked up from his homework, dropping his pencil to the dirty linoleum of the kitchenette in the motel. "We're what?"

"We are going hunting," he repeated, picking up the pencil and tossing it back at Sam. His brother caught it clumsily, clutching it to his chest, still staring at him disbelievingly.

"Dad wouldn't...we can't, Dean," he protested, fidgeting in his seat. Dean snorted.

"I think Dad wanted us to take this job," he said, puffing out his chest. "Now come on, we're going to the library. Gotta get some research done." He grabbed Sam's hand and hauled him to his feet, ignoring his whining about homework and responsibilities and could Dean just slow down and listen for a moment?

It was a small town, and it was a short walk to the library, made longer by Sam's complaints. He seemed stuck on some big book report that he had due. Dean rolled his eyes. You didn't need to do homework to pass, and you just needed to pass if you wanted to hunt. Sam had some weird ideas about a career and college, but Dean didn't see the point. The only job that was completely sure to be around forever was hunting, and you didn't need a degree to run credit card scams.

Sam didn't stop complaining until he had a catalog of the library's newspapers in front of him, when he dove into the research with gusto. He liked research a little more than was healthy, especially for an eight-year-old. Dean almost couldn't stand how adorable his little brother was, sitting on a small pile of books so he was tall enough to see the catalog on the table, brow furrowed, legs kicking the air because they were too short to reach the ground. Every so often his tongue would sneak out of his mouth, a habit he had picked up from Dean when he was really thinking hard about something.

They worked in silence for a few hours, finding out the history of the town, all the violent deaths, all the non-violent deaths, and even a few town legends. Sam kept careful notes on a yellow legal pad. His handwriting was better than Dean's. Dean thought it was pretty sad that his little brother had better handwriting than him, but what could you do, the kid was a freak. Eventually they had it narrowed down to a couple who had lived in the house back at the turn of the century. It seemed that the husband had killed the wife in a spat that got out of control, and then committed suicide out of remorse. It fit with the reports of shouting and banging coming from the house at strange hours of the night. Whatever argument the couple had, clearly it was unresolved.

"Good job, Sammy!" Dean said, clapping a hand on his back. Sam beamed with pride.

They gathered their notes and put away the books and microfilm and headed back to the motel, Sam trotting at Dean's heels holding his legal pad and pencil, Dean striding ahead with his hands shoved in the pockets of the brown leather jacket John had given him.

Dad had most of the tools with him in the car, but he had left a pair of shovels and a bag of salt in the room, and that was all they needed, really. It was only late afternoon, so Dean grabbed a bag of funions and plopped down on the couch to watch some bad daytime TV. Sam sat next to him, stealing his snacks and talking over the dialogue and kicking the couch and generally being a pain.

"Sam?" Dean said finally, interrupting the incessant chatter.

"Yeah?" Sam answered, grabbing another funion.

"Can you try not being a little bitch for about thirty seconds?"

Sam pouted. "You're such a jerk, Dean." He glanced out the window. The sun was on its way down and the street lights were beginning to turn on. "Can we go yet?"

"Not until it's totally dark, you know that," Dean said, kicking at Sam gently.

He had a moment of doubt about what he was doing. Sam had never been hunting before. He had helped with the research, sure, but he had never actually been out with a shovel and a shotgun, taking down ghosts and other things that lurked in the dark. Maybe he should wait for Dad to get back...but Sam was so excited, face lighting up from the inside, so pleased and proud to finally be doing something good for the world. And Dean had done jobs like this before, with Dad, sure, but it was just a straight salt and burn, no big deal. The couple was even buried next to each other in two marked graves. Totally easy.

Sam sighed. "Fine. Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean answered.

His brother grinned. "Thanks for taking me hunting with you. It's like you don't think of me as a little kid any more, not like Dad does. You're awesome." Sam launched himself at Dean and wrapped his arms around Dean's neck, squeezing him. Dean smiled and hugged Sam back, then pulled away and ruffled his hair.

"No problem. I'm just teaching you now so you won't always be so useless," he teased while Sam tried vainly to put his hair back in order, tongue sticking out and unruly brown strands flying in every direction.

"Dean," he whined, "why do you always have to do that? Why do you mess it up?"

"'Cause it pisses you off," Dean said with a grin. Sam glowered at him, but his eyes were smiling. "Come on, let's get our stuff together, we can leave in half an hour or so." He really should wait for it to be darker, but it was a sleepy town. No one was going to be out once the sun went down. Sam jumped off the couch and dragged a duffel bag from underneath their bed, filling it with the two shovels, a bag of salt, a nearly-empty bottle of lighter fluid, a flashlight, and a box of matches.

"Ready! Let's go!" Sam said, zipping it up. Dean laughed.

"I said half an hour, not half a minute, doofus," he laughed. "Put some food in there, I'm gonna be hungry when I'm done digging."

"I could dig," Sam offered.

"No, you have to hold the flashlight," Dean said. "Your skinny little arms won't be able to handle digging.

It turned out that Sam did need to help with the digging, since two graves took a lot longer to open up than one. They worked in the darkness, since neither one could hold the flashlight while digging, breathing in synchronicity and sweating in the warm May air. Dean lost track of how long it was, but he guessed at least a few hours passed before they got the coffins exposed to the night air. He broke open both coffin lids with his shovel, then shoved the duffel of salt and lighter fluid over to Sam.

"You wanna do the honors, Sammy?" he asked gallantly. Sam's eyes grew as wide and round as saucers.

"Really? You...you mean it?" he squeaked, chewing on his lower lip nervously. Dean nodded.

"Yup, go for it. Make sure to use plenty of salt," he said. "And lighter fluid. Gotta make sure they really burn, right?"

"Right!" Sam chirped, grabbing the bottle of lighter fluid and starting to squirt it into the graves. He got a lot of it on his hands and the ground around the coffins but most of it generally ended up where it was supposed to go. He spilled salt on top of them – probably too much, if Dean was being honest, but better safe than sorry – getting less of that where it wasn't supposed to be. Sam looked back at Dean questioningly, unlit matches in his hand.

"Looks good, Sammy. Go ahead and burn those suckers," Dean said, a hint of pride in his voice.

Sam grinned widely and struck the first match, dropping it into the grave dramatically. The second match took a few tries to light but he got it, and tossed it into the other. As the flames rushed up they heard far-off shrieks. Dean was glad – that meant they had gotten the right bodies. He was always paranoid about getting the wrong ones.

"All right, Sammy!" he crowed, holding up a hand and high-fiving his little brother. Sam beamed.

"That was awesome!" Sam cried.

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well, now we gotta bury them again. That's not so much fun."

"I don't care!" Sam said happily. "That was so cool!"

It was a minor miracle that they got everything back in the ground and the grave site back to looking (more or less) like it did before they got there. Sure, the ground was a little disturbed and the sod had lines in it from where they pulled it back, but all in all the job was a success.

They made it back to the motel a little before sunrise and went straight to bed, both crawling into the one. Dean always made noise about how Sam was big enough to sleep on his own, dammit, but the truth was he never slept as well as he did when he was sharing the blankets with Sam, the kid's octopus arms all over, breathing soft and even. It was where he was most comfortable, and he didn't think that would ever change. And Sam had nightmares when he slept on his own. He never remembered them when he woke up, but Dean couldn't stand the whimpering and quiet sobs he made, so they still shared a bed and they both slept better for it.

John came back two days later and asked what they had been up to the past few days. Dean smiled and lied, saying they just sat around and did homework. He didn't really know why, he just knew that he didn't want John to know he had taken Sam hunting. It seemed to fall outside the realm of "take care of Sammy."

Sam gave Dean a curious look when he heard the lie, but didn't press. He liked that they had a secret together. It was something just for them, something Dad didn't share. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

That night, when they were almost asleep and John was snoring in the other bed, Sam cuddled close to Dean.

"Dean?" he whispered.

"Yeah?" Dean whispered back.

"Next time Dad's gone...d'you...d'you wanna hunt again?" he asked tentatively.

Dean's smile was almost bright enough to light up the pitch-black room. "Yeah Sammy, I think I'd like that."


End file.
